Steven Saylor - Catilina's riddle

I looked out at the herb garden, avoiding his gaze. I watched the wasp, envying its freedom 'Oh, Cicero trained you well indeed!' I said under my breath.

'He did,' Caelius acknowledged quietly, with a crooked smile of triumph on his lips.

'What does Cicero want from me?' I growled.

'Only a small favour.'

I pursed my lips. 'You try my patience, Marcus Caelius.'

He laughed good-naturedly, as if to say: Very well, I've bested you and will toy with you no longer. 'Cicero wishes that you should play host to a certain senator. He asks you to open your house to this senator whenever he wishes and provide a haven for him, a safe retreat from the city. You should understand the need for that'

'Who is this senator? A friend of Cicero's, or someone to whom he owes a favour?'

'Not exactly.'

"Then who?'

'Catilina.'

‘What!’

'Lucius Sergius Catilina.'

'Cicero wishes me to provide a safe haven for his worst enemy? What sort of plot is this?'

"The plot is Catilina's. The point is to stop it'

I vigorously shook my head. ‘I want no part of this!'

'Your honour, Gordianus—'

'To Hades with you!' I rose from my chair so abruptly that I knocked it to the floor. I stepped out of the door and crossed the herb garden, waving the wasp out of my way, and strode through the gate without looking back.

I turned towards the front of the house, then remembered that

Caelius's bodyguards were loitering there. The sight of them would only make me more furious. I spun around and circled towards the rear of the house. An instant later I glimpsed a figure crouching beneath the library window. Aratus, I thought, spying on me again!

I opened my mouth, but the curse died stillborn in my throat. The figure turned towards me — and it was Meto, not Aratus, who looked me square in the face. He put a finger to his lips and backed cautiously away from the window, then scurried to my side, looking not the least bit guilty for eavesdropping on his own father.

III

‘A son should not spy on his father,' I said, trying to be stern. "There are some Roman fathers who would beat their sons for such a crime, or even have them strangled.'

Up on the ridge, Meto and I sat side by side on the stumps and looked down on the farm. In front of the house, Caelius's bodyguards sat beneath the shade of a yew tree. Caelius himselfhad stepped into the herb garden and was peering towards the stream with one hand shading his brow from the westering sun. He had no idea where I was.

'I wasn't exactly spying,' Meto said, chagrined.

'No? Spying is the only word for it'

'Well, I learned it from you. I suppose it's in the blood.'

This last was absurd, since Meto was the son of slaves and had not a drop of my blood in his veins, but I was touched by his fantasy. I couldn't resist reaching out to muss his hair, and none too gently. 'I suppose you blame your wilfulness on me, as well?'

'I give you credit for all my outstanding qualities, Papa.' He smiled crookedly. The clever, charming little boy I had adopted had grown into a handsome and soft-spoken youth. His face became pensive. 'Papa, who is Catilina? And why do you bear such a grudge against Cicero? I thought he was your friend.'

I sighed. These matters are very complex. Or not complex at all if a man does the sensible thing and turns his back on them for good.'

'But is that possible? Marcus Caelius says you owe a personal favour to Cicero.'

'True enough.'

'Without Cicero, we wouldn't have the farm.'

'Might not have the farm,' I corrected him — but the guilelessness in his soft brown eyes compelled me to acknowledge the truth. 'Very well, without Cicero there would be no farm. Without him to represent me, the Claudii and their lawyers would have eaten me alive in court. I owe him a great favour, like it or not. But what use is this farm if I must pay for it by allowing men like Caelius to bring Rome to my very doorstep?'

'Is Rome truly so awful? I like the farm, Papa, but sometimes I miss the city.' His eyes lit up. ‘Do you know what I miss most? The festivals, when they have plays and chariot races! Especially the races.'

Of course you miss them, I thought. You're young, and youth craves distraction. I shook my head, feeling old and sour.

'The festivals are only another form of corruption, Meto. Who pays for festivals? The various magistrates elected each year. And why? They will tell you they do it to honour the gods and the traditions of our ancestors, but in truth they do it to impress the crowd, for their own personal aggrandizement. The crowd gives its support to the man who can put on the most splendid games and spectacles. Absurd! The spectacles are only a means to an end. They impress the voters, who in turn give a man power. It's the power which ultimately counts — power over the fates and property of men, over the life and death of nations. Time and again I see the people, impressed by games and shows, give their votes to a man who then proceeds to legislate against their interest. Sheer stupidity! Point out this betrayal to the citizen in the street and he will answer But, oh, what a splendid spectacle the man put on for us! Never mind that he emasculated the people's representation in the Forum or passed some invidious property law — he brought white tigers from Libya to the Circus Maximus and hosted a great feast to inaugurate the Temple of Hercules! Who's more to blame for such wickedness — the cynical politician without a shred of principle, or the Roman citizens who allow themselves to be so easily duped?'

— I shook my head. 'You see how it affects me to speak of it, Meto? My heart begins to race and my face turns hot. Once I accepted the madness of the city without question; such was life and there was nothing particularly wrong with it — there is a fascination, after all, in the dealings of men, no. matter how vile and corrupt. More importantly, there was nothing I could do about it, and so I merely accepted it. My livelihood took me deep within the councils of powerful men, and showed me more of the truth than most men ever see. I was growing wise in the ways of the world, I thought proudly, but what good is such wisdom if it only leads to a knowledge of how helpless one is to change this world? Now, as I grow older, Meto, I grow less and less able to tolerate the stupidity of the people and the wickedness of their rulers. I have seen too much suffering created by ambitious men who care only for themselves. Unable to affect the course of events, I turn my back on them! Now Cicero would force me into the arena again, like a gladiator pressed to fight against his will’

Meto considered this in silence for a moment. 'Is Cicero a bad man, Papa?'

'Better than most. Worse than some.'

'And Catilina?'

I remembered my recent conversation with Claudia, whom I had cut off when she began to talk of Catilina's bid for the consulship. 'Our neighbour on the far side of the ridge calls him a wild-eyed madman.'

'Is he?'

'Cicero would say so.'

'But what do you think, Papa?' He frowned. 'Or should I not press you to talk about it?'

I sighed. 'No, Meto, press on. Since I manumitted you and made you my son, you are a Roman citizen, no more or less than any other Roman, and soon you will put on the manly toga. Who else should educate a boy in the ways of Roman politics except his father, even if I must bite my tongue to do it?'

I paused for breath and looked down on the farm. Caelius's men were still idle, while Caelius himself had withdrawn from the heat of the herb garden back into the cool of the library; he was probably looking through the tew modest volumes I had acquired over the years, many of them from Cicero as gifts to sweeten his payment for my services. The slaves were busy at their labours; the beasts were drowsing in their pens. I could stay on the ridge all afternoon, but eventually the sun would set and Bethesda would send Diana to fetch us for dinner. I would be compelled to offer hospitality to Marcus Caelius. He would press me again to honour my debt to Cicero, and how could I refuse?